September 2016
Peter Browning is portly with short arms, a squashy block on legs. To cram his bulk through the doorway, he turns sideways. They’re staying in the Sainte Violette hotel. Peter says his mother couldn’t manage the cottage stairs. She totters in, leaning on her stick. I’m shocked at how she’s aged. Folds of skin dangle from her upper arms and a gash on her cheek is surrounded by purple bruising.
“I fell down the stairs at Pete’s and hit my face on the banister.” She grimaces. “Lucky not to break my other hip.”
She hands Mollie a paper bag full of chocolate bars: brands whose existence I was hoping she’d forgotten.
“Can I eat this one now, Mummy?” Mollie brandishes a Yorkie.
“Just two pieces.”
“You’ve kept the house spotless!” she exclaims.
I was up at five, scrubbing floors and cleaning windows. It does look nice; the wooden furniture glows and I’ve put vases of flowers on every windowsill to disguise the smell of dog.
“Milou!” Mrs Browning bends to let him lick her hand but winces as she straightens her back. “I miss my dog and my lovely neighbours. But Pete’s right. I can’t live alone any longer.”
“How long do you think it will take to sell?”
We’re all huddling in the centre of the sitting room, yet it feels awkward to invite them to sit—it’s her house, not mine.
“Market’s weak just now but we’ll price it to sell,” says Peter. “White elephant. Need to get it off Mother’s hands.”
“A friend of mine works with the local notaire to introduce clients and show them properties for sale,” I say.
Peter’s creased forehead glistens with sweat. Does he suspect me of trying to con him? “Is that so? We visited two agents in Limoges on our way from the airport. They’ll be out to measure up on Monday. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Henri Wilson.”
“Do you have his card?”
I don’t, but I scribble Henri’s number on the back of a supermarket bill.
Behind Peter’s broad back, Mrs Browning and I exchange glances. Her eyes brim with tears. I reach out and touch her hand.
“Sit down. I’ll make some tea.”
*
“I may have a new client for you,” I tell Henri, updating him on the Brownings’ decision to sell the cottage.
His eyes narrow. “But where will you live?”
I’m touched that his first thought is for me and Mollie, not his own business interests.
“Paul thinks we’ll be able to restart work on the house next month. But it won’t be ready to move into before winter.”
He takes a cloth and polishes the glasses I rinsed earlier. “I can’t see the Browning cottage selling in that timescale. Some properties are taking up to two years to sell.”
“But you told me there were dozens of people looking.”
“Well, yes. Dozens of buyers, but hundreds of houses for sale. Anyway—if they want me to work on their project, they’ll have to register the property with Bernard, the notaire. I’m just the link man.”
“D’you think it’s the type of place Eve would be interested in?”
“Hard to say. I’ve shown her six properties already. She wants to see everything in her price range. Can’t seem to whittle down her priorities.”
“Nice for some.” Then I remember the reason for her good fortune. “Shouldn’t have said that when she’s just lost her mother.”
“She was quite taken with this village,” says Henri, putting the last glass back on the shelf. “And she enjoyed meeting you. She’s planning to come here for supper this evening.”
It’s Saturday but Lilianne is taking a night off. Henri’s agreed to work and I’ve ruthlessly edited the menu so I can cope alone. The meals are from the freezer but they’re home-cooked so I don’t feel any shame at serving them.
The Sainte Violette hotel restaurant also opens on Saturday nights but doesn’t seem to affect our trade. I glance at the reservation book.
“Gaspard—I don’t remember them booking.” I’m intrigued. My neighbours never come in and I rarely see them.
By seven o’ clock, the bar is busy. Two middle-aged couples, who don’t know each other, strike up a stilted conversation and decide to stay and eat. I ring Remy to ask for extra baguettes and he brings them in person and loiters with a Cognac, joking with Henri and Hubert.
More customers trickle in; the atmosphere buzzes with chat and laughter. Early diners are tucking in to their starters when a silver Mercedes sports car draws up outside and stops with the engine idling.
“Eve?” I ask Henri and I’m not surprised when he nods.
I’ve noticed that tourists favour large estate cars and the locals are loyal to their Renaults and Peugeots. It’s rare to see a Mercedes in this part of the world. Leaving Henri in charge of meeting and greeting, I retreat to the kitchen, bracing myself for food orders. Mollie’s on a sleepover with a friend so I can give the bar my full attention.
Between the bar and the kitchen is a serving hatch. It’s never used because the shelf on the bar side is stacked with bottles, but I keep it open to watch the goings-on in the bar, unobserved. On the far wall is a vast engraved mirror, its top edge leans forward at an angle giving me a full view of the bar. Reflected in this mirror, I observe Eve’s entrance and feel the frisson as all eyes swivel to watch her cross the room.
“Henri—you didn’t say you had a second job. I thought you were all mine.” Other voices mumble but Eve’s strident tone reaches the kitchen, crystal clear.
She’s wearing a black pencil skirt, emerald green top and green leather shoes with three-inch heels. She wriggles up onto a bar stool, smoothing down her skirt, and Hubert wishes her good evening. She replies in fluent French, quizzing him about the village and his family.
“How many children?”
Proudly he admits to three sons and two daughters—all grown up and married.
“Wonderful. And you have your family around you?”
“Sadly no,” he tells her. “Three are in the Paris region; one in Limoges. My youngest son works abroad.”
I’m impressed. Eve’s gleaned more about Hubert’s family in five minutes than I have in a year.
Without letting her attention waver from Hubert, she orders a gin and tonic. He offers to pay but Eve won’t hear of it. I hear the clink of the ice hitting glass as Henri slides the drink towards her.
As he strolls across to a table to take their food order, I panic. Action stations—this is it, Emma. You’re on your own—chef and waitress. I hurry to the chest freezer and ferret inside, checking stocks of this evening’s main courses, wondering what I’ll do if they run out. Footsteps tip-tapping across the tiled kitchen floor startle me and I drop the freezer lid, moving my hand just in time to stop my fingers joining the batons of sliced carrot.
“There you are!” An English voice, clear and commanding.
I spin round. “Eve.”
She’s holding her gin and tonic in one hand and unleashes her dazzling smile. “Sorry to startle you. Just came to say hi.”
My kitchen should be my sanctuary, safe from intruders, but she crowds towards me, landing an air kiss on both my cheeks. I keep my arms rigid at my sides and wipe my frosted fingers on a cloth.
“I can see you’re busy.”
I nod. “If you’re hungry, order straight away. We’ve several bookings at eight o’clock.”
She glances at the blackboard I’m chalking up. “What’s the casserole of fruits de mer?”
“Cod, salmon, scallops and prawns with celery in a saffron sauce.”
“Sounds delicious.”
“Coming up.”
I take a portion out of the freezer and prepare it for cooking. Eve sips her gin and tonic and makes no sign of moving back to the bar. My throat constricts. Is she planning to stand there all evening, watching me cook?
Henri appears at the kitchen door waving a bunch of orders. His handwriting tends towards indecipherable.
“Can you read them out to me?”
Eve raises her glass then slips past him, back to the bar.
As I bustle around preparing meals, I keep up with the unfolding drama in the bar where Eve is surrounded by a group of regulars, spellbound at some story she’s telling. I move my food preparation surface closer to the hatch and listen.
It’s a harmless story about the apartment she’s renting in Limoges. Apparently, it looks immaculate on the outside but, every time she touches an appliance, it breaks in her hand. Before coming out this evening, the showerhead dropped off onto her foot. As she says the word ‘pied’ Hubert and Claude collapse in laughter. I don’t get why that’s funny. Perhaps it’s the contrast between her immaculate appearance and the chaos she’s describing.
When I carry the next meals through, I walk into a wall of noise. The Gaspards, from the pheasant farm, have arrived with visiting relatives. I greet them and show them to their table, leaving Henri to take their drink and food orders. Adding the garnish to Eve’s fruits de mer takes a while and, when I carry the plate through, Eve is no longer perched on her barstool. Was I too slow? Did she give up waiting and leave?
No. I see her now. She’s sitting with the Gaspards’ family party at their table, sharing their red wine and chatting in fluent French. I feel a rush of annoyance. The Gaspards are my neighbours—or will be if we ever get the house finished. How long has it taken her to get to know them? Ten minutes? Five?
She waves to me and I carry the plate across.
“Justine and Pierre didn’t like to see me dining alone. They invited me to join them. How sweet is that?”
Very sweet, I agree. Eve is now on first name terms with my neighbours while I still call them Madame and Monsieur.
“Here you go.” Henri puts a lime and soda in my hand as I return to the kitchen.
For the first time, I experience a Cinderella feeling—crazy because I’m the proud owner, customers compliment me on the food. What is it about Eve that makes me feel this way?
Time speeds up. All evening I rush between kitchen and bar, chasing my tail. I feel flat and invisible like a silent movie character being projected onto the wall. The atmosphere is electric as if a party’s going on.
Around ten, the clamour subsides and flows out of the door with departing customers, voices muted by car doors slamming. I stack the dishwasher and pile pans in the sink. Only two or three people remain when I collapse into a chair and kick off my shoes.
“That was a tough shift. You did well.” Henri smiles.
I notice Eve is still there too. She carries her drink across to my table and I think of the dark winding road back to Limoges and worry she’s had too many but, when she puts her bottle down, I notice the red cap—Evian water.
She leans towards me. “Henri told me your cottage is for sale.”
“Not mine. But yes, it is.”
“I’d like to see it. Is tomorrow okay?”